‘In other words, a sandbag. A blow to the back of the neck would do the needful without leaving any marks on the body.’

For a while, all of us were silent. Then Bijoy looked up with a haggard expression and asked, ‘But who …? Why …?’

Byomkesh understood the import of his question and shook his head. ‘That is something I don’t know yet. Something else has been puzzling me. Mrs Sen must have been in the next room between ten and eleven that night—didn’t she hear a thing?’

Almost unconsciously, Bijoy got to his feet and said brokenly, ‘Kakima! No, oh no, she doesn’t know anything! She must have been asleep …’

He realized suddenly that we were staring at him in surprise and sat down again.

Byomkesh said, ‘Anyway, let’s drop the subject for the time being. In due course, all our questions will be answered. Right now, do tell me one thing—who is the beneficiary in Nishanathbabu’s will?’

Bijoy replied in a harried tone, ‘Kakima and I—equal shares.’

Byomkesh and Barat exchanged glances, and Barat stood up to leave. ‘Let’s be off today,’ he suggested. ‘Bijoybabu still has a busy day ahead; the last rites …’

We rose to our feet. ‘We’ll come over to the farm later in the day,’ Byomkesh announced. ‘By the way, any news of Rashik De?’

‘I have put my men on to it,’ Barat replied. ‘No news so far.’

‘Brojodas Guruji hasn’t come back, has he?’ Byomkesh asked Bijoy.

The latter shook his head.

Byomkesh said, ‘Inspector Barat, you need to add one more customer to your list now. Please look out for Brojodas as well.’

Barat made a note of it and asked, ‘When you’re coming that way, would you drop in at the police station once?’

‘Yes, certainly.’

After they had left, Byomkesh sat in his chair for nearly half an hour, lost to the world. I finished smoking two cigarettes, one after the other. Then, unable to bear the torture of prolonged silence, I asked, ‘What did you think of Bijoy? Is he faking his emotions?’

Byomkesh looked up and replied, ‘If that is faking, there isn’t a better actor in Bengal.’

‘So he really has been hit hard by his uncle’s death. He seems to care a great deal about his aunt as well.’

‘Hmm. And that is why he is afraid.’

A few minutes later, I asked again, ‘Tell me, is there any link between the delivery of motor parts and Nishanathbabu’s death?’

‘There might be one or there might not.’

‘But Lal Singh died two years ago. So who was sending the motor parts to Nishanathbabu?’

‘I don’t know. But do remember, there is no proof that those motor parts were intended for Nishanathbabu. He thought so himself, but it could well have been otherwise.’

‘Then whom were they meant for?’

Byomkesh did not reply. I waited for a couple of minutes and when I realized he would not oblige me with an answer, I asked him a different question altogether: ‘Is there any connection between Sunayana’s story and Nishanathbabu’s death?’

‘Even if there happened to be one,’ Byomkesh admitted, ‘I cannot see it. Sunayana had killed Murari Dutta with nicotine poison. Nishanathbabu was murdered by a man.’

‘A man?’

‘Yes. Nishanathbabu was not a very big man, but still it wouldn’t have been possible for a woman to tie his legs and string him up from the ceiling.’

‘That’s true. But what could be the motive?’

Byomkesh rose and stretched himself.

‘Perhaps the biggest motive was that Nishanathbabu had called on me!’ He lit a cigarette and headed for the shower.

When we arrived at the Mohanpur station that evening, a few hours of daylight still lingered from that long summer day. We emerged from the station and found the farm’s buggy waiting. Mushkil Mian was perched on the footrest, puffing at a beedi.

We hadn’t seen Mushkil in the last few days. He seemed to have aged and looked a little more hunched than before. He saluted us and said, ‘Bijoybabu sent the van for you gentlemen.’

Byomkesh asked, ‘Have they returned from the riverbank after performing the last rites?’

‘Yes, they have.’

Byomkesh asked, ‘Has there been any new development?’

Mushkil sighed and replied, ‘What more could there be, sir? Everything is over.’

‘That’s true. Come, let’s be off. But we have to stop by at the police station first.’

‘Come along, then. Is it true that a post-mortem was done on the master?’

‘Yes. How did you come to know of it?’

‘Oh, things come to my ears. What did the autopsy reveal—that it wasn’t a natural death?’

Byomkesh avoided a direct answer and said, ‘The doctors know about that. Mushkil Mian, aren’t you always drowsy from opium? How then did you come to know so much?’

A faint smile appeared at the corner of Mushkil’s mouth and he replied, ‘So what if I am drowsy, sir? My wife keeps her eyes peeled and her ears perked up. Nothing escapes her. I get all the news. I knew long ago that something was about to happen.’

‘And how did you know that?’

Mushkil lapsed into silence for a few minutes. Then suddenly, waving his hands about in a gesture of regret, he remarked, ‘Fooling around with women … under cover of darkness, people slinking off to each other’s rooms … no good can come of such wanton behaviour. No, sir, it can’t.’

Surprised, Byomkesh asked, ‘Who goes to whose room?’

Having allowed the words to escape his lips, Mushkil seemed a little embarrassed. ‘Whom can I leave out, sir?’ he went on. ‘It’s the women who are evil, sir—they were created by Khuda to bring about man’s downfall.’

‘So … you mean to say that at night the women on the farm secretly join the men in their rooms? Can you tell me who goes to whose room?’

‘How can I tell, sir? In the dark, can you make out